


Leaving Heaven

by Thoughts Like A Minefield (Incog_Ninja)



Category: Lucifer (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Alcohol, Blood and Gore, Choking, Cunnilingus, Death Threats, F/M, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Guilt, Hair Pulling, Het Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Redemption, Regret, Rough Foreplay, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Intimidation, Show level violence, Threats of sexual violence, commiserating over childhood trauma, making out with a Knight of Hell until she comes fully-clothed against a brick wall, mentions of Dean’s arrest record, mentions of past rape (nothing descriptive), mentions of petty crime, mentions of the foster system, verbal terror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22928386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Thoughts%20Like%20A%20Minefield
Summary: Tazi is a bounty hunter of mostly human things. She isn’t firmly seated in the supernatural world, but she’s familiar enough that she’s recruited by an old friend of John Winchester’s to capture and deliver a brief acquaintance of her own.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s), Mazikeen (Lucifer TV)/Dean Winchester, original female character based on
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marksmanfem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/gifts).



> Title from the song Leaving Heaven by Eminem + Skylar Grey

“‘Sup, Mikey?” I walk through Mike’s back door into his kitchen.

It’s a small space, cluttered but not dirty, and always smells like coffee and cigarettes.

“Got a job for ya,” he replies as he pours me a cup. “Have a seat.”

Mike Clemons is an old cowboy. He’s stocky, sun-worn leather for skin and a white handlebar mustache, bright blue eyes, and thick, white hair.

He acted as my guardian when I fled from the foster system at the age of 16. He’s like the uncle who teaches you how to pee outside and handle a firearm just because.

“”Member Dean Winchester?” he asks, his voice measured and his tone warm as always.

He hands me a mug of coffee then crosses the room to retrieve a thick folder from his filing cabinet.

Mike’s also the kinda guy who keeps his filing cabinet in his tiny kitchen.

He takes a seat across from me, shaking two cigarettes from a soft pack and sliding the file across the table.

“How could I forget Dean Winchester?” I say as I open the folder to several images of Dean past and present. “What’d he do now?”

“Take a look,” Mike answers as he lights both cigarettes then hands me one.

I accept the smoke and take a drag as I peruse the images.

I met Dean Winchester 13 years ago. I was just out of jail and the only gig I could find that would keep me out of relative trouble was at Mike’s cousin’s strip club. The security was tight and the money was great, and Mike gave me a place to sleep and food on the table until I could get my feet under me again.

That’s also when I learned about what Mike did on his hunting trips - he hunted monsters, demons, angels. It was all so fucking wild.

Then one image in the folder, in particular, knocks me back in time.

_“Hey, darlin’” a warm, smiling voice called for my attention as I walked to the back of the bar after my set._

_When I turned, I saw two boys - not really boys, but younger than the typical patron - both handsome and bright, definitely tipsy but not sloppy._

_I turned to fully appreciate them, slowly dragging my eyes up and down their respective frames._

_They looked trouble - the fun kind - and were both hot - just the right combination of enticing for a girl like me. I had to remind myself of three very important things: one, my therapist had advised that I take a break from romantic entanglements of any kind; two, the club did not (officially) recommend fraternizing with the clientele; and, three, my probation officer would absolutely not approve of the unauthorized kind of fraternizing that generally happened with clients here._

_“Darlin’,” I repeated the greeting with a nod, garnering wider and even brighter grins from both blue and green eyes._

_Blue Eyes approached me first, but I couldn’t stop parting my gaze between the two._

_“My buddy Dean and I were wonderin’ if ya’d like to join us for a game of poker and a beer or two when you’re done,” he said._

_I flicked my eyes to Dean and saw a blush darken his cheeks. He didn’t drop his eyes, though. I liked that. I liked that he was nervous, maybe even intimidated, but he didn’t look away. In fact, he looked thrilled - eyes bright and anxious, ready for anything._

_I dragged my attention back to Blue Eyes. “Sure,” I answered. “What’s your name?”_

_“Lee,” he answered, showing off those pearly whites again and offering his hand to shake._

_I shook my head with a huff of laughter as I accepted. “Gotta love a southern boy,” I said._

_Lee laughed, genuine and deep. Then Dean swaggered forward, and I... I felt something move in my chest. For a second, I thought I’d lost my breath._

_“How ‘bout a midwestern boy?” Dean asked, his voice just as smooth as he looked - open, inviting, eyes sparkling in the constant strobe of lights._

_I was so fucked._

I was afraid of what I felt but didn’t let on. I had already learned how to hide those feelings, and I was working on my boundaries. That boy could not have come along at a worse time in my life

I joined them along with the bartender, and one of the bouncers for after-closing beers and a game of poker - strip - I won.

I never forgot, though, the way his proximity, his smile, and his cockysweet demeanor made me feel - like a normal girl with a normal life who could have something.

Fast forward to now, looking at images of that boy, all grown up, his arrest records - nothing shocking for a hunter (which I learned not the night I met him but over the years and through the grapevine) - and personal accounts of other hunters who’ve crossed his path and/or worked a case with him and his younger brother, Sam.

Then a more recent image catches my eye and I freeze - security footage from a convenience store. It’s grainy, but the eyes are unmistakable.

“Whoa, I thought the Winchesters were unpossessable.”

“Yeah, well, guess not,” Mike answers with a cloud of smoke. “Whatever - I owe it to John to take care of this.”

“Ok, but why me?” I ask, looking up at Mike.

“I seem to recall you had a certain simpatico,” Mike answers with an arch of his brow and a drag off his smoke. “Desire’s one of those things that transfer from a human to their more beastly counterparts.”

“Got it,” I reply, looking back at the image from the night I met Dean.

_“Thanks for playin’, folks!” I crowed as I pushed away from the table._

_My coworkers rolled their eyes and grumbled as they dressed. They were used to me winning at poker, I didn’t know why they continued to agree to play with me._

_“That’s some crafty shit, girl,” Lee said, as he and Dean both chuckled, stepping into their jeans._

_“Hey, you all already saw me naked,” I laughed back, helping the bartender wipe down the table we were using and hoist the chairs on top._

_Dean shuffled closer to me as Lee shifted away like a choreographed dance._

_“You, uhh,” Dean started to speak quietly as he scooped his t-shirt from the floor. “You wanna... I dunno...”_

_He ran his hand through his hair. I was stunned that such a beautiful, smart, funny boy would be so bashful._

_“I do, but...” I answered._

_I wanted so much to touch him - imagining how smooth his skin would be, freckled and pull taut over well-developed muscle - but the thought of it seized my breath again._

_His eyelids fluttered and his brow furrowed. “Yeah, no, that’s cool,” he answered, pulling his t-shirt over his head. It was inside out and ruffled his hair. “I totally get it.”_

_He smiled again and it felt like my heart and lungs were being squeezed by a vice grip behind my rib cage._

_“It’s not you, Dean,” I said, stepping into him a bit, trying to catch his eye as he looked anywhere but at me._

_He nodded, reaching for his too-big leather jacket. He shrugged into the jacket and stood up straight, shoulders back as he towered over me. Then his expression closed off completely and my heart dropped into my stomach._

_He shook his head, pursed his lips and said, “No big deal, sweetheart.”_

_As he turned to follow Lee out the door, he muttered something like “see ya around” but I couldn’t hear much more than ringing in my ears._

“Bring him in alive, Tazi,” Mike says, startling me from my reverie. “Don’t try to exorcise him.”

I shift in my seat and clear my throat. “Yeah, well, I’m a bounty hunter, Mikey, not a priest, so…”

Mike eyes me cautiously before standing to get us both more coffee.

“Exactly,” he says. “Just one more reason you’re perfect for the job.”

Right now, I’m not so sure I agree with him.

~~~~~~~

I find Dean at a podunk, smoke-stained bar in the middle of Nebraska. There’re two flat-screen TVs tuned into some pro-sport that I don’t care about. After three hours and many, many shots of whiskey consumed by the demon, we’re the only two patrons left in the joint just five seats apart.

“Hit me,” Dean says to the bartender. “And leave the bottle.”

The bartender does as he’s told before muttering over his shoulder about closing soon. Then he disappears somewhere in the depths of the backroom or cooler or wherever he’s escaping from this obvious predator.

“Gonna just sit there and stare at me all night, or’re we gonna have it out?” Dean drawls, turning his gaze to me, eyes blinking from warm moss to shiny onyx.

I thought baby-face Dean was breathtaking. Turns out, weathered, eye-crinkley Dean is otherworldly in his beauty. It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge that I find his body attractive even possessed, but my therapist tells me it’s healthy to do the acknowledging thing.

“You do that just for funsies, or is that your pick-up game?” I reply steadily, unmoving from my barstool.

I’m trying to gauge whether or not he remembers me. He doesn’t seem to, so Mike’s idea that desire as a hold-over will give me an advantage is kind of fucked. Then again, considering my potential weakness for him, maybe him not remembering me is just as well.

“Guess we’re playin’ 20 Questions,” Dean sighs, pulling his gaze from mine and tossing back his umpteenth shot of the night. “Awesome.”

He licks his lips as he empties the rest of the bottle, which isn’t very much, into his glass with a tsk.

“You’d think when I said, ‘leave the bottle’ he’d’ve realized I wanted more than this.” He shakes his head.

This demon is so much chattier than Dean was. He looks similar, sure, older but still handsome. His eyes are dead, though, and not just because they’re black. The stark contrast makes my mind wave and flutter.

But I stay cool.

“Why d’you even bother with a glass?” I ask, wondering why I’m bantering with Dean Winchester’s demon over bar etiquette.

“It makes me feel more civilized – I dunno,” he says with a shrug before downing the shot. He narrows his gaze and I feel it in my gut. “Do we know each other?”

I keep my expression neutral with a non-answer, the skill that helps me win at things like strip poker.

Dean brushes it off pretty quickly, though, before swiveling his chair to face me.

“There a Matrix LARP thing in town, or... ?” he asks, dragging his eyes down and up my form, nostrils flaring, warming my skin and making my heart pound. “All that… leather.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I answer.

It’s a lie. I fucking love The Matrix and am totally into cosplay – but Dean doesn’t need to know that.

It sucks that I remember so much about Dean and that he’s so pretty and authentically charming; because he’s also possessed by a demon. All of these facts swim in my brain and fuck with my intuition.

Maybe I should’ve brought back-up.

He shrugs again as he stands out of his chair. “I’m gonna help myself, you want a nip?” he asks casually, stretching.

I shrug – it seems to be the theme for the night, shrugging. “Sure,” I answer, swiveling out of my own chair.

Dean strolls behind the bar, and I follow. The bartender is long forgotten by both of us. Honestly, he probably bailed. I could see his skin prickle every time the demon said a word or moved at all.

“Johnnie, Jack, Jim,” he says turning lazy eyes on me, dragging his gaze over me again. “Somethin’ else?” 

God, he’s stupid hot, and this all feels frighteningly familiar. Hanging out with a demon should not be this enjoyable, but here we are.

I glance beyond where he’s standing and see the red wax cap of my favorite whiskey. “Maker’s,” I reply, snagging his gaze and his lazy eyes perk up.

“Nice choice,” he says, then turns his back to me to reach for the bottle.

So I buckle up and fly through that window of opportunity.

I jump like I’m going to take him for a piggyback ride, chokehold his neck, and wrap my legs around his middle. But he’s a demon, and he’s Dean Winchester, and I’m a fucking idiot because then he’s got me on my back on the bar top.

“This’s more like it,” he says with a delighted sneer, tongue running the ridge of his white teeth as his hand clamps around my throat. “Knew you had it in you.”

He looks down at me with those pretty, pretty eyes - yet, there’s nothing there now. No recognition, no warmth, no joy.

I steel myself to jack him in the face, pure adrenaline giving me the strength to lunge up under the weight of his upper body pressing his hand around my throat. As he rubs his jaw, I sit up and spin to kick him in the mouth.

Man, it’s a shame to hurt that face – but, demon healing and all that.

Dean’s hunched over and laughing as I hop down from the bar. Just as he recovers from the kick, unfolding to stand to his full height, I grab a handful of that soft, thick hair and yank.

His green eyes glaze over and he drops to his knees at my feet, bliss smoothing his features and filling his voice. He literally groans in satisfaction.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his shoulders slumping.

I stare down at him in disbelief then twist my fist. He hisses through a wide grin. 

“ _Oooh_ ,” he moans with a low chuckle. “Don’t stop, sweetheart.”

 _Sweetheart_.

Cold, detached, calculating.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do, but my belly flips.

And then he’s sweeping my feet out from under me.

“Oof!” I hit the ground, face first, wind knocked from my lungs once again by this man.

Before I can register a coherent thought, he’s on top of me. His full-length, pinning me as I gasp for air.

“Relax,” he whispers, his breath brushing the shell of my ear. “Tiny breaths, you’ll get it back.”

He swipes my hair to the side, pushes his knees between mine and spreads my legs open as he inhales deeply from my neck and shoulder and grinds into me from behind. I’m trembling under him – terrified, confused, sweating, and on the verge of tears.

“Shh,” he says, nuzzling into my neck, darting his tongue out for a taste.

I must taste like salt and fear. He must love it. He doesn’t make an attempt to really hurt me.

He’s just playing with me.

“Don’t cry,” he coos.

I hate that he senses my tears coming, hate that he can read that from me, hate that we have history, however brief, but thankful he doesn’t remember.

He keeps grinding against me, hot and hard as he works to pin my arms behind my back, just above my ass.

I gasp again, not as shallow as last time and can sort of breathe. What he’s doing is sending my mind reeling. I’m just as hot between my legs as his body is - he has to feel it - and I’m getting so wet.

“Got your breath back, that’s good,” he says, stretching out over me again, languidly sliding one scorching hand under my shirt and up along my ribs.

He brushes his lips over the exposed nape of my neck, takes his time smelling and tasting me.

He’s hot as any demon I’ve ever known, maybe hotter, like he’s just walked out of the fires of Hell. It’s mesmerizing and I curse myself for being so turned on; but, so far, it’s pretty clear that Dean has no intention of doing more than teasing me.

“You give a demon all sorts of nasty ideas,” he says, licking a long, scalding strip up the side of my neck.

I start to melt under his words and his power. It’s all so confusing.

Then, just as quickly as he pinned me, I feel a rush of air and the absence of warmth.

When I roll to my back, he’s gone, leaving me utterly bewildered and cold.


	2. Chapter 2

He left me face down in that bar, humiliated and shaking. He could’ve killed me, but he didn’t. He was testing me, though, I know that now.

So, before I track him again, I prepare myself.

I look deeper into the file Mike gave me. I find images and words, disconnected and ill-conceived, just shuffled in with everything else.

There are images of a man with untamed silver waves of hair and a piercing blue gaze, haunted by what I learn to be millennia of murder and solitude.

There are images of a gnarly-looking blade made from the jawbone of a donkey.

And there are images of a mark, gruesome and frightening. 

There are mentions of _Knights of Hell_.

I learn from further research that Dean was given The Mark and The Blade by Cain, the murderous son of Adam and Eve if you believe that sort of thing. The research tells me that Cain was one of those Knights of Hell, and now Dean is too.

Some sources think The Mark makes the bearer immortal, but no one can agree on exactly what that means.

Then it dawns on me that Dean died with that mark and when he died he became the demon, the Knight of Hell – he isn’t possessed.

It dawns on me that it was _Dean Winchester_ who assaulted me. I wasn’t dealing with the well-aged vessel of Dean Winchester but Dean boiled down to the very essence of evil.

The knowledge that the same kind, fun-loving boy I met all those years ago came _this close_ to murdering me or worse behind that bar troubles me deeply and in more ways than I am prepared to recognize.

Regardless, I will afford him no more sympathy. I will mourn and forget the boy for whom I kept such fond memories.

I’m going to get in, get my bounty, and get the fuck out.

When I find him the second time, he’s in a standard-issue, small-town bar chair with a leggy, bronzed brunette in his lap.

Of-fucking-course he’s at a strip club. I get to take a stroll down memory lane. Goody.

Also, a hostage. Way to complicate things, Dean-o.

Judging by the poster outside, the girl in Dean’s lap is the headliner, and he’s got a hold on her like she’s _his_.

Dean’s always been a little cocky, right? But not like this. He’s never acted like he was entitled to the world. His demon is straight-up white privileged male on steroids, and I just wanna kill him.

“You again?” he asks without even casting me a glance. He keeps his eyes on the face of the trembling dancer.

I can’t see her very well, but her posture is tense and fearful.

As I round on them, Dean leisurely twirls the hair of the frightened young woman. His grip on her knee is so tight, I can see her skin turning pink and swelling between the whites of his knuckles.

Once I’m up close, I stop dead in my tracks and my skin runs cold. That’s when Dean finally looks at me – that’s when I notice the hand in the young woman’s hair is slick with blood.

The scene behind him, further inside the club is absolute carnage – bodies and detached limbs of at least five men, strewn about the floor amongst gore and bodily fluids.

The smell, the visual, and the way my mind runs through what must have taken place – exactly what Dean must’ve done to wrought what is laid out before my eyes – is stomach-churning. I exhale slowly and bite my lips closed before meeting his eyes.

In this form, Dean is pure chaos and destruction. It’s fucking terrifying being this close to so much power, malice, and unearthly beauty all rolled into one man.

Dean was once so revered for his heroism. He was feared by monsters and men. And now he is the worst of what feared him.

I don’t even know where to look. As sorry as I am for the girl in his grasp, for what she’s endured at his hands and in his proximity, I’m thankful for the few beats of breath her presence grants me to collect myself.

“Hop up, princess,” Dean taps the girl’s thigh and she obeys. “Daddy’s gotta take care of some business.”

He tucks her hair back, smearing her cheekbone and the shell of her ear with sticky red as he looks down at her.

“Why don’tcha go make me a snack, hmm?” he smiles, and she nods slowly, tears streaming from her eyes over her glittery cheeks and lips.

As she turns, shaking, to walk toward the back of the club, Dean grips a handful of her hair and she yelps.

“Don’t try anything,” he growls, and she whimpers.

Bile rises in my throat, stinging and making me dizzy. I’m stuck between losing what little I ate today and tearing him to shreds with my karambit knives.

Man, I really want to end this guy.

“Let her go,” I start, and he rolls his eyes and shoulders, releasing her tangled, bloody tresses.

He’s so fucking big, it gives me pause; I don’t remember him being this big. I have to calculate his arm span and the strength in those hips and thighs – the same hips and thighs that pinned me down the last time we encountered each other.

“Let her go! She’s just a girl!” Dean mocks my command. “She’s a _stripper_ , Tazi, it’s not like anyone’ll miss her.”

I suck in a harsh stream of breath at the use of my name.

“Oh, yeah, I remember you,” he speaks as he begins to circle wide, out and around the periphery of the bar. “Back in… what, ’02? You…” he chuckles and jabs a playfully accusing finger at me.

Dean Winchester really likes to play with his food.

“You got me and Lee and half the table at that club down to our skivvies,” he laughs as he saunters around me. “ _Crafty_ little thing.”

He stops at the heavily lacquered bar, grabs a stray bottle, and pours two fingers of whatever brown liquor’s inside.

I won’t show him my hand, but I’ll bluff a little. That’s my style, and his reminder of me beating him in the past gives me an idea.

“I seem to recall you being pretty into my routine that night,” I purr as I turn with his re-circling pace, his eyes slicking black. 

“So you, what, just never grew out of the _ooh, look, titties!_ phase?”

I mirror his every move, pushing up the sleeves of my jacket, taking in the angry, throbbing mark on his arm as he pushes up his own sleeves.

“Not to mention our last meeting,” I continue, boldly smiling. “You were _so hard_ against my ass, but then you just left me hangin’.” 

I pout a little for impact.

Dean purses his lips, his eyes going back to luminous green as he appears to ponder my words.

“Let the girl go,” I say, squaring my hips. “And you can have me.”

His eyebrows jump. “Ballsy,” he says. “What if I like newer models?” 

He rakes hard eyes over me as he licks his lips.

“Nah,” I reply. “You like _experience_.”

I’m wildly guessing at this point based solely on his clear enjoyment when I pulled his stupid hair, but I get the reaction I was hoping for; Dean grunts and starts to pace again. We’re at a bit of an impasse. He’s thinking.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s the girl coming back into the room from the kitchen. She’s balancing a plate with whatever she made for him and quietly sniffling.

Once she’s within his sphere of reach, he takes the plate from her, immediately setting it and his drink aside. He pulls her in close and draws his blade from his back. 

It’s all very casual, which doesn’t make it any less startling when he threatens her throat with his fist by wrapping it tight against her jaw, and with the point of the blade hovering over her jugular.

I draw a breath to calm myself and snag the girl’s gaze with as much conviction and assurance as I can. She nods.

She can’t be more than 21 and damn if she doesn’t look a hell of a lot like I did 13 years ago.

“OK… let her go, and I won’t slit your throat.” I swing my knives around my fingers for good measure.

Dean scoffs and smirks.

“You can’t kill me, honey,” he says, letting the tip break her delicate skin. “Not even with your fancy, hand-crafted whatever-the-fucks.”

I shake my head. “Don’t be so sure,” I answer.

Dean laughs as the girl’s blood spirals and clings to the filthy blade at her throat.

“ _The Mark of Cain_ ,” he draws out, twisting his forearm to blatantly show off the throbbing scar. “I can’t die with this thing. Read a book.”

So I back up.

“Oh, I _have_ been reading,” I reply. “And I’m pretty sure you know I don’t need to kill you to make you feel like you wanna die, Dean.”

I read in his file that he’d been to Hell and tortured people there. I don’t know if it’s metaphorical Hell or what, but I’m certain he knows exactly what I mean.

I know the kind of confidence I can exude in these moments, but to be honest, I’m frozen with fear for this girl and myself – yet… poker face.

“Let her go and you can do anything you want to me,” I offer, breaking into a chilling sweat with images of what he could actually do to me careening through my mind. “And don’t worry, I won’t come too easily. You can play with me _all day long._ ”

Dean stares deep into me, his feral grin widening. He relaxes his grip on the girl and the blade just enough for her to slump away, leaving me with a decent target.

Before he can refocus from contemplating the plunging neckline of my leather top, I’ve released one sharp knife whirling toward his own jugular.

“Run!” I tell the girl, and she doesn’t hesitate.

She makes it out into the sunshine as I turn back to find Dean on one knee, holding his hand against his gushing throat and clutching my knife.

His eyes are wide, angry, and wild. “You _fucking_ -” he spits.

“Human instincts’re a bitch, huh?” I ask, out of breath and momentarily relieved that I was able to throw him off his game, knowing I don’t have more than a second or two to get the fuck out of here.

I’m not ready to take him. I have to regroup.

I step forward and send a roundhouse kick to his skull, and my knife clatters to the floor.

He’s out, but I don’t know for how long. I scoop up my knife and run the same way the girl went, leaving the demon at the bloody scene.

~~~~~~~

“What the fuck, Mikey?”

I’m not as angry as I project. I rarely react the way I feel. My therapist says it’s because I don’t trust myself or anyone else, so I always put on.

The truth is, I knew there was something different about Dean before I finally did my own research. Mike gave me the whole file. I knew Dean wasn’t just some random demon and he sure as Hell wasn’t an average bounty.

“Tazi,” Mike holds up his hands in surrender. “I thought the more you learned on your own, the better.”

“You could’ve at least told me he’s a fuckin’ psycho and _can’t be killed_.” I crack open the bottle of whiskey on Mike’s kitchen table, and Mike looks at me like I’m high.

God, I wish I was high.

“‘Demon’ didn’t tell you he ain’t right in the head?” Mike asks. “Look, I’m sorry, but do you blame me? The whole thing is fucking unbelievable.”

I suck my teeth as I dump whiskey into a glass from one of Mike’s cupboards.

“Yeah, yeah,” I concede. “What do you know about The Blade? And don’t just regurgitate what’s in the file - you gotta know more than that.”

I slump into a chair across from Mike as he begins to tell me what he’s heard.

“It can’t be destroyed,” Mike continues cautiously as he holds my gaze. “And it makes him immune to… everything. He’s super-strong and telekinetic-”

I nod, looking into my glass. “He’s havin’ fun, ya know?”

I look back up at Mike and feel my lips twist into something that feels like a grimace.

“And you?” Mike asks, eyeing me suspiciously.

“I just mean that he doesn’t seem to be focused on killing me,” I reply, deflect, sip my whiskey. “At least not yet.”

Mike nods. “I didn’t give this to you so you could play Danger Girl, Taziana.”

“I know,” I say, spinning my glass and watching the golden liquid swirl. “But you gave me the job for a reason, and not just because he used to wanna bang me.”

“I gave it to you because I knew you’d do everything but kill him and you could still bring him in,” Mike replies before we each fall quiet for a few moments as we sip our whiskey.

“Lemme see what else we can find out,” he sighs, sounding more reluctant than I’m used to.

Two hours later, Mike and I are in a dance club nestled in a dark corner booth. It’s the kind of place I had my last club job - swanky and full of basics, looking for some kind of relief from their mundane lives.

“This Crowley hangs out here, you say?” I ask, accepting my drink from our server with a nod.

Mike grunts noncommittally as he accepts his own drink. “Not so much hangs out as takes meetings,” he replies.

It’s loud in the club, unsurprisingly, but at least the music’s good.

“Relax, would ya?” I say. “You’re making _me_ nervous. It can’t be that bad-”

Mike looks up over my shoulder and the color drains from his face.

When I turn to see what he’s looking at, I find a stout, impeccably dressed man with a dark receding hairline and beard. He smiles and it sends shocks over my skin.

“Hello, darling,” he purrs.

I make a full-body turn and climb out of the booth to stand. He’s incredibly intriguing, which is usually not such a good thing in this line of work.

Mike clears his throat behind me where he’s still seated in the booth. “Crowley, this is Taziana,” he says by way of introduction.

Crowley dead-ass takes my hand and kisses my knuckles, all the while holding my gaze.

Smooth motherfucker.

“Pleasure,” Crowley says, slowly and, apparently, reluctantly releasing my hand.

I was wrong before. His voice isn’t a purr; it’s a growl-purr hybrid, and it sends a wave of heat from my sternum out to all extremities.

Crowley’s eyes light and his nostrils flare; he’s scenting me.

Not human. Great.

“Likewise,” I reply with a wry smirk as I scoot back into the booth next to Mike with a sigh.

I’m starting to regret this whole fucking demon bullshit.

“So,” Crowley starts as he takes a seat in a chair pulled out for him by another suit with more hair on his head and less on his face but not much else distinguishable.

“You’re hunting Dean Winchester,” he says matter-of-factly. “And you need information.”

I nod.

This not-man isn’t about to _give_ anything, so I wonder aloud why he’s even at this table with us.

“What’s the price, Romeo?” I cut to the chase.

Mike shifts in the seat next to me loudly and awkwardly enough that it grabs my notice.

“What?” I hiss, and Mike looks like the proverbial cat literally walked across the table and ate his tongue out of his skull.

“Love,” Crowley pulls my attention back to him. “Your dear Michael here did me a favor recently and now I owe him. Free of charge.”

I sigh and lean into the table, tossing a chastising glower toward Mike.

“Spare me the details,” I say to Crowley. “Tell me what I need to know to get this job done.”

Crowley tells me that the Winchesters figured out how to cure demons and that Sam Winchester is looking to cure his brother.

Besides the obvious, glaring detail that I don’t get paid my bounty if I don’t bring the demon to Mike, I have questions.

“A cure,” I deadpan before shooting the rest of my whiskey and waving down our server.

Crowley seems amused by me. That bugs the fuck out of me, but I choose to ignore it and focus on what’s really important.

“I’ll _spare you the details_ , Tazi darling,” Crowley snarks. “Suffice to say, the younger, much larger and arguably less psychotic Winchester will likely have more invested in bringing his brother back… intact.”

So I ask the obvious.

“And my bounty?”

Crowley’s amusement has yet to subside as he asks, “Didn’t Michael tell you?”

His gaze bounces between the two of us before he lets go a throaty chuckle.

I drag my attention back to Mike. “Explain?”

Mike shrugs. “The bounty’s comin’ from Crowley,” he mutters.

I roll my eyes and turn just in time to be handed a fresh drink from our server. I thank her then take a long pull from my glass before speaking. Two hours ago, Mike was scolding me for dancing with the devil in the pale moonlight. Meanwhile, he’s in bed with… whatever Crowley is.

“Well, that’s just fuckin’ rich, Mikey,” I grumble, and Crowley continues to chuckle. “So I deliver Dean to his brother and you pay me?”

Crowley nods. “King of Hell, by the way,” he says before sipping his drink.

I roll my eyes again because, _of course_ , he can read minds.

“Alright, let’s brass-tacks this thing,” I say, and Crowley reaches into his pocket for his phone.

He gives me Sam Winchester’s contact information and the exact location of his demon brother. The implication is that I should contact Sam and take him to Dean. Apparently, Crowley and Dean spent the past three months avoiding Sam, and Crowley thinks it beyond his window of opportunity to call Sam himself without suspicion.

“Got it, you’re not on the best of terms with baby bro,” I reply, pocketing my phone and making to stand.

Crowley watches me appreciatively as I shrug into my jacket.

“If I call this guy and he gives me the slightest of bad vibes, you’re on your own,” I tell him. “You too,” I add, pinning Mike in place with a glare.

“Fair enough,” Crowley replies.

“Get my tab?” I tell the men. “And be sure to tip your server.”

I walk out of the club, wasting no time to pull my phone out and call the number I’ve just received from Crowley.

As the night air blessedly cools the skin of my face and throat from the heat of meeting the actual fucking King of Hell, my phone connects.

“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line is hesitant, yet I can feel his desperation over the cellular waves.

“Sam Winchester?” I ask, climbing astride my Yamaha. I secure my phone in its cradle on the center console and fit my helmet onto my head, activating the Bluetooth connection.

He doesn’t speak right away, and I can respect that.

From what I know of Sam Winchester, he’s cautious and thoughtful. I’m going to need to hold that close as we do this deal because after the massacre in that strip club… 

I want Dean Winchester to die bloody and screaming, not _cured_.

But that isn’t the job.

“My name’s Taziana Smith and I’m a bounty hunter,” I continue, starting my bike. “Got your number and the location of your brother from Crowley. Wanna meet?”

When he finally speaks, it’s affirmative.

“Where?” he asks.

“Dean’s in Omaha,” I answer. “Meet me at M’s Pub in the Old Market tomorrow at noon.”

“Got it,” he replies, his voice is shaky and hoarse.

“Great,” I reply, disconnecting the call before pulling into traffic and making my way to the interstate.


	3. Chapter 3

I get to Omaha late at night/early in the morning and check into a bed and breakfast near Dean’s alleged location. As I collapse onto the bed, Mike rings my phone for the fifth time since I left him and Crowley at the club in Denver.

He wants to apologize, and I don’t want to accept it. I just want to find Dean and get my money.

I answer his call anyway.

“Tazi, I’m sorry this is such a mess,” he says.

“Mikey, I’m not doing this right now,” I answer, lighting a cigarette then reaching for my whiskey. “I got a big day tomorrow – today, whatever – and I don’t wanna think about why in fuck you’re working with the King of Hell.”

“Well… keep me posted,” Mike says.

I will because Mike and I are family. Regardless of his motivations or obstacles, I’d still be right where I am – hunting an unkillable demon who just happens to be the deadliest supernatural hunter in recent history. 

“You owe me – big,” I reply before disconnecting the call.

~~~~~~~

Women prepare for battle every day. After a few hours’ sleep, I’m up and preparing for mine.

My armor is my favorite leather pants and tank top, thigh-high boots that give me an extra three inches in height, motorcycle jacket with plenty of pockets, the sides of my hair braided away from my face like an Amazon, dark, glossy lipstick, eyes painted black as night, chain metal bracelets, necklaces, earrings. My karambit knives are always easily accessed.

Bulletproof.

I take my Americano bulletproof, too, in the dining room of the b&b with all midwestern eyes on me. It’s 7 AM; I don’t think Jan from Ohio is used to seeing an on-duty bounty hunter this early even on a Friday.

This has been my uniform since I was 13 years old. To the untrained eye, I look ready, willing, and able.

But I don’t need anyone to understand. I don’t need anyone to agree with how I protect my body and spirit – no matter how modern society codes it.

I’m not into small talk, either, and now sure as hell isn’t the time to try my hand at making friends with civvies. I have a job to do and I’m going in armed to the teeth, skin buzzing with nerves and espresso, ready to take my bounty.

I head over to Dean’s shitty motel to scout him out before I meet Sam. I could’ve stayed at the same hotel, given myself more time to pinpoint him, but then he probably would’ve smelled me or some shit.

I fucking hate this guy.

Instead, I’m huddled against a dumpster outside with my delicious, steaming coffee, as a woman slinks out of his door. She’s barefoot, tangled hair pulled into a mess of a bun, mascara smeared, strappy sandals dangling from her fingertips.

She crosses the street with her phone tucked into her neck as she fumbles with her keys.

“…fucking _wild_ , sis,” she says, her voice ragged. “Details later, but… dude can _fuck_.”

I feel my eyes roll to the back of my skull until I think they’ll stay there forever.

I recover, though, and am able to take a bracing sip of my beverage – just before I’m yanked to standing.

“You don’t _blend_ , sweetheart,” Dean murmurs against my ear as he knocks my coffee cup clean from my hands.

His heavy arms band my own around my middle and his teeth latch onto the exposed crux of my shoulder and neck as he guides me toward an alley.

“You’re like a black widow.” He walks me backward, further into the alley, his thick thighs brushing between and against mine until my shoulder blades connect with a brick wall. “Sleek and deadly beacon of come hither.”

I grit my teeth as he chuckles then nips at the shell of my ear, his breath hot and damp, washing my skin. I hate that my body likes this – likes _him_ and rough things, likes the bass and grate of his voice.

But I hate predators more.

“You think I was tryna draw you out?” I sneer as his mouth moves over my skin. “I’m just lookin’ for a decent cuppa coffee.”

“‘Course you were tryna draw me out,” he laughs lightly, separating my hands, dragging them outward by the wrists until I’m spread-eagle against the wall, pinned with his heft. “You want me _bad_.”

I know exactly how to get out of this. I’ve been in this situation more than I care to recount. But I’m frozen, my brain spiraling with what to do next.

Also? I’m wet. So wet. And I fucking _hate it_.

Dean smirks as he slowly ducks in to take my mouth with his. And I let him. He’s hard and solid under the denim of his pants. I can’t help but undulate against him as he moans into it, twisting our tongues in a crazed dance.

What in the _fuck_ am I doing?

Kissing him back - that’s what.

This isn’t good, but it’s _so good_.

As Dean pushes one hand up into my hair and wraps the other around the back of one of my thighs, he stands up straight and tall, lifting me a bit. He’s so into it that- 

Does he really not realize he’s just given me an advantage?

He grinds into my center as I simultaneously wrap my hands around his throat and hoist my legs around his middle and _squeeze_.

And, God, his eyes roll back and he groans, slamming his palms against the wall on either side of my head. I can feel his cock pulse as he thrusts against me.

Shit, I could come from this - this demon, hulking and hot, heavy breaths and sighs _at my fucking mercy_.

“Fuck, yes,” he chokes through my grip. His eyes flick open, jet black and shining. “Harder.”

So I squeeze harder, I grind harder as he hovers over me. He pushes in and out against the wall like he’s doing push-ups for Satan with his forehead against mine. I get myself off, humping against him, choking him out.

Jesus.

“Dean!” a vaguely familiar voice calls from the hazy periphery of lust enveloping us.

Dean and I each let go at the same time. I drop into a crouch and Dean does the exact opposite because he’s a cocky prick and apparently kamikaze as a demon.

“Sammy!” He swaggers to face his brother with a jovial grin splitting his face. “You met my girl Tazi?” Dean taunts his cautiously hedging sibling.

Sam is huge; like bigger than Dean. He looks like he just mainlined nine seasons of _The Walking Dead_ , and his right arm is in a sling.

I begin to wonder how much of a hindrance he’ll be instead of help.

Dean grins as he swings his searing gaze from Sam to me. When his eyes meet mine again, there’s a terrifying edge there.

It hits me especially hard that I was just pressed against the wall and coming from a blood-thirsty psychopath who could’ve snapped my neck on contact.

Dean pops his tongue into the side of his cheek and nods slowly, dragging his gaze back to Sam. “What a coincidence you’re both here, huh?”

Dean’s making no attempt to start a fight or end one. He’s enjoying every second of watching his brother and me squirm.

I _have got_ to get my shit together, so I focus on the brothers.

The heat between these two is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. They seem to want to meld together, destined to do so, through oceans of bad blood and heartache. They are _not_ meant to be separated.

“Who winged you?” Dean asks Sam, unmoving, steadily keeping an eye on his brother.

“Does it matter?” Sam replies.

“Not really,” Dean answers, sincerely. “I told ya to let me go.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Sam answers, jutting his chin in the face of the demonic being at the heart of his brother.

“By the way,” Sam continues. “Your, uh, pal Crowley… sold you out.”

Dean chuckles and tosses me another chilling look. “Sounds like him.”

As Dean takes a step toward me, I hold my ground and toss my chin up with Sam’s.

“Dean, hold on a second,” Sam pleads. “You don’t have to do this. Look, we know how to cure demons. You remember that?”

Dean purses his lips and narrows his eyes, turning back just enough to keep both Sam and me in his line of sight, most of his attention on me.

“Little Latin, lotta blood – rings a bell,” he answers with very little interest. “D’you ever stop to think that if I wanted to be cured, I wouldn't’ve bailed?”

“That was Crowley,” Sam answers, darting his gaze to my own.

Dean’s smirk breaks into a frightening grin. “It really wasn’t.”

Sam starts to lose his patience or his tenacity, or maybe he’s just fucking exhausted. His voice is wrecked and his posture is exasperation personified as he tells Dean that none of the details matter, that they’ll fix it all.

I’m just about to insert myself, to try to distract the demon when Dean turns to ice.

“Will we?” he asks with venom. “'Cause right now, I’m doing all I can not to come over there and rip your throat out… _with my teeth_.”

My breath leaves my lungs and I see Sam’s throat convulse.

“I’m givin’ you a chance, Sam,” Dean warns. “You should take it.”

That infamous Winchester bravery rears its head as Sam answers, “I’m gonna have to pass.”

“Well, I’m not walkin’ outta this alley with you,” Dean answers, head tilted and mocking.

I look to Sam, try to communicate to him that I can help. We can get him out of here together, I try to tell him. Sam is hyper-focused on his brother, though.

“So, what’re you gonna do?” Dean further antagonizes Sam. “You gonna kill me?”

“No,” Sam promises - _promises_ like it means anything to this demon.

“Why?” Dean continues. “You don’t know what I’ve done. I might have it comin’. Right, Tazi?”

Both brothers turn their attention to me, and I growl.

“Shotgun Willie’s in Colorado last week,” I mutter.

Sam tenses up, but I can see in his eyes that he knew it was Dean who decimated that club; this is just confirmation.

“Well, I don’t care,” Sam says, steeling himself. “Because you’re my brother. And I’m here to take you home.”

Just as I’m about to get a leg up on Dean, I see a wave of panic cross Sam’s face. Then I feel Dean’s fist connect with my jaw, and everything goes black.

~~~~~~~

“Hey,” Sam says. “You scared me.”

He’s arched over me, trying to offer a smile but it’s more of a grimace than anything.

Up close, Sam doesn’t look much like his brother, but he reminds me of Dean when he was younger. He has the kind of eyes and posture that says he’s ready for anything.

I push myself to sit with my back against the dumpster where this whole scene began. I work my jaw a bit and wince.

“Your boy’s got quite the left hook,” I groan as Sam helps me up.

“Yeah, we’re lucky he didn’t give you the right,” Sam mutters, glancing around the alley.

“Where’d he go?” I ask, heading out of the alley.

Sam follows me, telling me that Dean “disappeared up a fire escape.” He shakes his head as we fall into step on the cobblestone sidewalk.

“You thirsty?” I ask, massaging my jaw. “I could use a drink.”

“Yeah,” Sam answers with a huffed laugh.

He’s still wound tight and cagey – but his brother’s a demon, so…

We make our way to M’s and are seated pretty quickly for a Friday afternoon.

“Thank you,” Sam says to the hostess, without even noticing that she’s trying to flirt with him – then again, demon brother, jacked arm.

“Hey, uhh…” I halt the hostess before she can leave us alone. “You probably don’t take orders, but can we get a couple whiskeys pronto?”

I motion to my quickly swelling face with a pained expression. Her eyes go wide as she nods before making a beeline for the bar.

Sam and I both sigh with relief as he settles into a seat and I drape my jacket over the back of my own chair. We each scan the restaurant for any kind of danger – second nature to us both – as I reach into the breast pocket of my vest to retrieve a couple of pain pills.

Before I can swallow the pills dry, a young man is there with two whiskeys, two glasses of water, and an ice pack.

“Thanks…” I give him a wry smile. “Had a little kerfuffle in the alley with a Knight of Hell – you know how it is.”

I grin, and our server, whose nametag reads ‘Javier’, politely laughs at my absurd statement before proceeding to tell us the specials of the day.

“I’ll, uhh, have the soup,” I say, sliding my menu across the table to Javier.

Sam repeats my order for himself and adds two beers and two more whiskeys.

Javier winks at Sam as he scoops up our menus then heads to the ordering station.

“You’re on fire today, kid,” I say as I finish my first whiskey.

And Sam blushes.

That pinkening of his cheeks makes my heart twist in my chest.

“How…” I pause, watching Sam finish his own whiskey. “How are two such good boys- _men_ … How did you and Dean wind up being the world’s deadliest hunters?”

Sam swallows the burning liquid then looks me in the eye.

“Our dad,” he answers. “He was a marine in Vietnam.”

He looks down into his empty whiskey glass. Neither of us has touched our water.

“He came back, met our mom, fell in love… got married and had us,” he continues. “Then a demon burned our mom alive on the ceiling of my nursery when I was six months old and Dad…”

Sam shakes his head again, and the only word I can think of to describe the expression marring his face is resentment.

“He went hunting and took us with him,” Sam finishes.

Javier sets our drinks and soups in front of us and, being the pro he is, leaves us alone.

“You were a baby,” I reply dumbly.

I was abused and abandoned as a child. I was passed around by relatives, taken advantage of. I sustained injuries, rapes, threats to my life.

And yet, I feel sorrow for what the Winchester brothers have endured.

Sam nods thoughtfully. “I was,” he replies. “But he trained us.”

Sam assures me that John Winchester equipped them with the tools and skills necessary to do their jobs. He taught them hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, lore…

“Yet here you are,” I gesture to his bum arm playfully.

Sam chuckles a little. “Well, Dean was always the one-”

Sam stops himself and eyes me cautiously.

I draw a breath. “The one?” I encourage him to continue, unsure whether I want to hear more about Dean specifically right now.

“Dean was always the good soldier,” Sam forges on with renewed intensity. “He did what Dad said – _exactly_ what Dad said.”

I remain quiet as Sam tells me how Dean was the best at everything. Dean was the heart of the family and he kept Sam safe. Dean was his hero.

Having to watch his big brother reduced to the base of a vile demon must be shattering Sam’s heart in his chest cavity.

“He raised me,” Sam continues. “We lived out of the Impala and hotel rooms, but Dean did his best to make us a home wherever we were.”

Sam’s voice trails off. “Sorry, I’m overwhelming you.”

I blink rapidly, realizing I’m staring. I feel cold all of a sudden like a realization is coming but hasn’t yet hit me.

“Don’t apologize,” I reply, downing my whiskey. “Sounds familiar.”

“I did a little research on you, too,” Sam smiles almost apologetically. “Foster system?”

I nod.

I like him better the more I get to know him. I like him and I respect him and his choices. And I want to help him.

“Dean’s the best hunter I’ve ever known,” Sam replies, raw and bare. “He’s smart and savvy in a way I’ll never be, and I just-”

“Hey,” I interrupt his tangent, reaching for his hand. “Let’s not go down this path of _woulda, coulda, shoulda_. Focus on what we need to do to catch this demon and get your brother back.”

Sam holds my eyes with recognition and appreciation. “Thank you.” His smile is shy. “Wasn’t sure what to think of someone from Crowley’s camp.”

“Oh, I am not from Crowley’s Camp,” I argue, waving Javier over. “I just met the little creep.”

Sam and I commiserate for a moment over finishing our beers so Javier can get us another round before I fully change the subject.

“I met him years ago, did you know that?” I ask.

Sam doesn’t appear surprised by this news, but he shakes his head. “Dean?” he asks, and I nod.

“He was with some kid named Lee, I was a stripper, I beat ‘em at poker,” I laugh. “It’s a good memory.”

“You beat Dean at poker?!?” Sam laughs out loud with utter delight and it makes me feel warm all over.

“I did!” I laugh. “And he was so sweet and _good_.”

Tears inexplicably prick my eyes, and it’s Sam’s turn to reach for my hand.

Hearing the story of how Sam and Dean grew up has given me hope that Dean isn’t done for. His humanity – the bravery and ardor that drives a man like Dean Winchester – isn’t gone forever.

Ten years ago in the same situation, I would’ve told every single one of these men, including and especially Dean to get fucked and I’d walk away. But I’ve learned a lot about myself and the world. I’d like to think I’m a better person for it.

“He deserves a fighting chance,” I continue, twining fingers with his. “And so do you.”

Sam nods solemnly. “You’re kind of a badass, you know that?” he asks with a grin.

“We’ll see,” I reply. “Now, let’s see how cold this soup is.”

Sam and I talk next steps, we make calls to our respective networks, we drink more beer. By the time we decide to break and sleep on it for the night, we’ve cycled through three servers and we still don’t know where Dean is.

“Listen, get some rest and we’ll hit it hard tomorrow,” Sam sighs, and I agree.

He looks even more exhausted than he did when I met him in the alley 12 hours ago. “We both need it,” I tell him. “We’ll find your brother, Sam.”

Sam smiles and nods before we go our separate ways

Back at my b&b, I climb the stairs to my room, key in and go through my nightly routine before swallowing three ibuprofen and downing a glass of water. I climb into bed and quickly fall asleep.

I’m awoken at 5:30 AM by the phone on my nightstand.

“The fuck,” I mumble and fumble and finally get a grasp on the receiver, bringing it to my ear. “‘Lo?”

“Good morning, Ms. Smith. This is your 5:30 wake-up call,” the perky voice on the other end of the line says. “Please let us know if-”

Before she can continue, I hang up. I didn’t fucking order a wake-up call. I groan, pushing myself to sit. I might as well get up.

I smell fresh, rich coffee and it perks my senses a bit. “Damn, these bitches get up early ‘round here,” I keep talking to myself as I swing my legs out from under the covers.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, in the dim morning light filtering through the lace curtains, I see a large, white paper cup with a black lid.

Steam curls lazily from the spouted opening.

I lean forward and find a small piece of paper with a simple message:

 _To replace yesterday’s - best coffee in town!_ ❤️ _Dean_

My stomach drops as I reach for my phone to call Sam Winchester.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: show level violence, adult language, alcohol consumption, minor character death, non-sexual choking, violent threats

Sam and I stand unmoving in the middle of my room at 5:55 AM, observing the coffee in question as if its a rare viper.

“Best coffee in town, huh?” Sam mutters.

“I guess...” I reply before turning to flounce to the mattress and draping an arm across my eyes. “Woulda thought he’d left town by now.”

My voice comes out like a whine, much more dramatic than I’d intended.

There’s a mass murderer on the loose. Yet here I am, throwing a sleepy infant fit in my underwear in front of the man intimately related to said mass murderer.

I just need a few minutes.

“Probably by _now_ , yeah,” Sam says, curiously circling the cup where it’s sat on my nightstand, no longer steaming but a radiating menace just the same. Then something lights his eyes as he stands to his full height while twisting the seemingly plain, white cup to show me a smudged stamp. It’s a logo of some kind.

“JB’s Cafe,” I read aloud.

“Horseshoe Casino,” Sam and I continue together.

“Ugh, do I even wanna look at the news to see what bloody mess he left for us?” I groan as I swing my legs over the side of the bed to stand again. “Gimme five and we can go check it out.”

Sam chuckles at my theatrics. “No rush,” he says settling into my kitchenette with a laptop. “I’ll do some poking around while you get dressed.”

I mumble “thanks” as I reluctantly scoop up yesterday’s clothes and drag my ass to the bathroom. After shimmying into my pants and top, I pull my hair up into a high, tight ponytail, keeping the side-braids meticulously in place. I make quick work of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and executing make-up.

I hear Sam exclaim from the other side of the door, so I throw everything into their respective travel bags then drop those bags into my backpack before opening the door.

He looks up, concentration marring his brow at first before his face clears with a grin. “That was fast.”

I shrug. “Got work to do,” I answer, tossing my bag to the bed before crossing the room to retrieve my boots. “Sorry I was so cranky.”

“Meh, I’m used to it.” His smile mellows a bit.

Dean. He’s talking about Dean.

I nod. “Find anything?” I ask him as I work my boots over my calves and knees.

Sam shakes his head and refocuses.“Nothing,” he says, an air of disbelief creasing his brow once more.

“Really,” I mutter, standing and adjusting my clothes into place. “Maybe they just haven’t reported anything yet.”

“No, I checked everything,” Sam insists. “Including local dispatch records.”

“Well,” I sigh, shrugging into my jacket. “I’m gonna need a quad American stat to deal with his antics.”

Sam purses his lips and darts his gaze to the cup from JB’s. “I mean...”

I scoff. “Like I’m gonna drink _that_ ,” I say and Sam chuckles.

“C’mon,” I say, shouldering into my bag. “Your demon brother isn’t gonna cure himself.”

Sam quickly packs up his computer and we make our way out to his car.

~~~~~~~

Gambling’s never been my thing, but I can feel the rush of it the second we cross the threshold of the casino.

Linda, my therapist, says I’m an empath. I thought she was full of shit the first time she said it. I’ve since learned that the facade I carried for decades to tell everyone around me that I don’t care about them was not only false, it was my subconscious defense against taking on too much. She then taught me how to manage that part of myself, to navigate it, to use it for good.

But no matter how well Linda trained me, nothing prepared me for the wave of panic that washed over me at the sight of Dean Winchester, front and center in broad daylight at a craps table, draped in a barely-legal blonde and grinning ear-to-ear. 

“C’mon, princess,” he drawls, seizing my gaze as he cups the dice under the girl’s chin. “Daddy needs a new car.”

“Shit,” Sam breathes next to me as the girl blows on the dice and giggles, bouncing on her bare feet.

She’s decked out head-to-toe in rose gold, bodycon, fake tan, highlighter, probably Victoria’s Secret - both lingerie and body spray. I guess her feet are tired, though, because her pink, sparkly 6-inch platforms are discarded haphazardly to the side.

“Why would he do this?” I whisper heatedly, scanning the room, calculating risks.

There are guards at every exit, at least two dozen patrons, dealers at all four open tables, three bartenders, two servers, and one Knight of Hell.

The odds are not good.

It’s pretty clear from the satisfied grin and sparkle in Dean’s eyes that he led us here for a reason. Whether he wants us to bear witness to a massacre or he’s batting us around like mice again, my skin crawls with the possibilities.

Old Me wants to shut-down and GTFO, but Current Me knows why I’m really here - to do my damn job.

Sam shakes his head in my periphery. “I dunno, I’m... I dunno anymore.”

I turn briefly to take in Sam’s utter defeat.

He isn’t just heartbroken over what his big brother has been reduced to, he’s bereft for the loss of their connection. I want to tell him the draw is still there, that we can fix this - he just has to keep his shit together.

“Focus, Sam,” I tell him, before dragging my gaze back to Dean. “We can do this.”

His breath shakes as he answers, “OK.”

Dean pays zero attention to the dice as he rolls them and the small crowd around the table goes wild. His eyes are black, but no one else besides Sam and I notice. Dean’s licking the sharp ridge of his teeth as he yanks the girl beside him into his side.

She squeaks a little, but as soon as she looks at his smug profile, all is forgiven.

“You won, Daddy!” she trills, throwing her arms around his neck.

He still hasn’t taken his eyes off Sam and me.

I draw a deep breath and take a step.

That simple act on my part has Dean grinning wider, sitting up straighter, human eyes taking the reins. I falter slightly but take a second step then a third. Sam’s right next to me.

“Hey, Dean,” I greet and half the table pretends to be interested in our interaction, the other half is still wet from the night before, bleary-eyed and drawn. “Gonna introduce us to your new friend?”

This is like an old west showdown and I’m not the only one who feels it. Some of the not-quite-dead souls of this den of iniquity move away from the table, cautiously. Dean’s _friend_ , however-

“Abby,” Dean answers with a sharpening edge, tightening his grip on her. “This is my baby bro Sam and the total pain in my ass Taziana Smith.”

Up close, I can see the hesitation in Abby’s eyes and stance; she’s forcing the act. No wonder he’s been so handsy with her since we walked in. For whatever reason he wants her for this obvious plan of his, he’s _making_ her stay by his side.

“Hi,” she says, sliding eyes older than she appears from Sam to me. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

I nod. “Sorry we’re late,” I answer in earnest.

I don’t know how long she’s had to put up with this asshole, but at least he hasn’t torn anybody apart in front of her yet -- that we know of.

“Meh, you’re right on time,” Dean says. “How was your coffee, Tazi?”

Dean maneuvers Abby aside so he can stand from the table.

“I wouldn’t know,” I answer with a sharp smirk of my own.

I’m done playing with Dean. I know what we’re dealing with -- no additional research or planning or backup will serve up at this point. We just have to capture and cure him, no matter how bloody it gets.

You gotta break some eggs and all that, right?

Dean nods like he’s bobbing along with a beat only he can hear. He’s trying to assess our next move. He knows Sam, and he thinks he knows me. But he really doesn’t.

With a sneer, Dean grabs Abby by the throat with one hand, pulls her back against his chest, and draws his blade, holding it across her stomach. Before he makes a second move, as Abby clutches at his fist around her neck with her dainty fingertips, and Sam aims his Smith & Wesson on his brother, three guards descend.

Dean throws Abby aside and to the floor as she gasps and chokes. He spins and slices through two of the guards as a fourth and fifth come out of nowhere.

He’s going to kill them all.

“Abby!” I shout and nod to the exit, just like the dancer in Colorado.

She scrambles to her feet and tries to run.

In the fringe of my vision, I see it -- The First Blade flies through the air. Before I can intervene, it catches her deep in her spine with a nauseous _thunk_ , and she slumps to the floor.

Dean’s hand-to-hand, easily putting each guard down -- snapping necks and pulling organs from their bodies with one thrust and yank.

I sprint into action, jump onto his back and squeeze tight. Dean roars and bucks like a mustang, clawing at my leather-encased arms and hands. He can’t get a grip, though, not even with his demon strength.

I’ve almost choked him out when Sam swoops in. He somehow manages in the flurry of limbs to clasp handcuffs onto Dean’s wrists one at a time.

Dean growls like a wild beast as Sam drags him to his knees

I fall away and roll to the side, frantic. There’s no way cuffs will hold a Knight of Hell.

“The fuck?” I breathe, hopping to my feet and ready to go again.

Sam slowly climbs to his own feet as Dean snarls and gnashes his teeth.

“You sonuva _bitch_!” Dean roars and struggles with the cuffs.

Sam catches his breath and joins me. “Demonic handcuffs,” Sam says by way of explanation.

“I’ll be damned,” I say in awe. “Nice work, partner.” I put my hand up for a high-five and Sam huffs a laugh before complying.

“I’m gonna rip your lungs out!” Dean barks from his knees. “Tie you down and make you watch me take my fucking time with _this bitch._ ”

Dean bares his teeth to me and I shiver.

That signature Dean Winchester charm disintegrates in the face of pure rage and evil. All the smooth-talking and cool smiles are replaced with venom and malice.

“Fuck you like you’ve been beggin’ me for then gut you like a pig,” he grits his teeth then turns to Sam. “ _Then_ I’ll rip your fucking lungs out.”

“He can’t get outta those things, can he?” I ask Sam, hedging around Dean, reaching inside the back pocket of my jacket for a gag.

“I wasn’t sure they’d work on him,” Sam answers, but once he’s bound, he can’t get out. “Sorry I didn’t mention them before.”

“No apologies,” I say as I cross the small expanse to where Dean’s kneeling.

I grip him by the hair and yank.

He growls up at me. “Not in the _mood_ , Taziana.”

“Me neither,” I reply as I shove the cloth into his mouth as deep as I can until I hear him choke. “Daddy.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings: this is not your mother’s Dean Winchester, show level violence, adult language, alcohol consumption, attempted sexual assault, choking, verbal terror, psychological horror
> 
> *The warnings may make this sound scarier than it is, but I just want to be safe. Please keep in mind this is the Demon Dean we know and love; he just happens to be experiencing a very vivid obsession.

We make it out the backdoor to the casino garage just as the police are showing up. I’ve got one of Dean’s arms and Sam has the other as we drag him toward Sam’s car.

“OK, listen,” I start, grunting as Dean struggles against our hold and drags his feet. “We’ll tape his mouth and hogtie him-”

Dean jerks free of my grasp, his protests muffled by the gag. He flails around until Sam can’t hold him either.

I swear to _God_ he’s like a toddler kicking and screaming in the toy section at Target.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter under my breath before throwing a punch to knock him out so he can’t run away. He drops to the ground. “This won’t last long -- get some duct tape.”

Sam mutters something under his breath, suddenly wandering away mesmerized, his eyes locked on something other than his half-conscious demon brother.

“Sam?” I ask as Dean begins to stir already. “Sam! I need you!”

Sam shakes his head and picks up his hustle. “Yeah... sorry, I’ll get some tape,” he says, motioning to the vehicle that’s drawing him like steel to a magnet. “This’s Dean’s car.”

“The legendary Impala,” I grunt as I haul Dean to his feet. “To what do I owe this honor?”

Sam rounds the back and wrenches the trunk open and I meet him there. He’s procured duct tape as well as rope. As Sam hands me the rope, Dean’s regaining his bearings so I shove Dean face-down to the ground again.

He grunts -- probably knocked the wind out of himself with his hands bound in front at his diaphragm like that. I climb astride him anyway, to tie his elbows behind his back and link his ankles to his elbows.

“Dig a hole, Sam, we can have us a little hog roast,” I smirk as I brace a hand between Dean’s shoulder blades to reach for the duct tape, earning more groans from the demon.

“Maybe we should get him some earplugs too?” Sam says pointedly, arching a brow at me.

I might be mocking Dean a little too much, but the adrenaline pumping through my body’s got me all riled up. I half-shrug and purse my lips. “Can prob’ly read minds anyway,” I answer, deciding to dial it back a bit.

I wrap the tape around his mouth and the back of his head twice before sighing and hopping to my feet, finally able to appreciate the sleek lines of the classic car. I leave Sam and Dean in my periphery as I walk the length of her, running a hand along her side.

“Damn,” I mutter. “You gonna take her home, right?”

I turn to Sam and he nods as he ducks his head to look inside. “Jesus, this thing is filthy,” he says, shocked.

And, I guess it makes sense that a man like Dean Winchester would cherish a thing like a classic car that once belonged to his father. I heard he rebuilt her twice, so I’m not surprised. This is just one more blow for Sam -- one more reminder that this is not his brother right now -- one more tiny reason to restore Dean to human. 

I turn to see Dean wiggling around on the ground back by the trunk.

“Ok, as I was saying,” I continue, hedging back toward Dean and talking to Sam across the roof of the car. “We put him in the back of this beautiful yet unkempt work of art, you drop me at my bike, and we head to... wait-”

The Winchesters are as homeless as I am, last I heard. Sam all but confirmed they lived on the road. But I swore I heard about some kind of base they had?

“Where’re we gonna do this cure thing?” I stop and observe Sam.

He seems lost in thought as he watches Dean continue to struggle. Then he nods. “We have a place,” he answers. “But it’s in Kansas -- Lebanon.”

“The Men of Letters Bunker,” I say, hazily recalling the note in Dean’s file about him and Sam somehow inheriting the stronghold a few years back. “Well, I, uhh... I understand if you don’t wanna take a stranger there -- it’s like the Batcave or something, isn’t it?”

“No,” Sam chuckles lightly and I smile at how relieved he already looks that we have Dean -- we’re in the homestretch. “It’s not party central, but you’re a... friend.” He smiles again, warming my chest. 

I shift my weight a bit and pause. I’m starting to feel the effects of such a long chase, but we still have a drive ahead of us. I just need to refocus and get there.

“Well, then,” I draw what some refer to as a cleansing breath, although this casino garage is anything but clean. “Drop me at my bike and I’ll follow you.”

As exhausted as he looks, he also appears incredibly grateful. “Thank you,” he says. “Really -- you did your job, but... I could use your help.”

“And you’ve got it,” I answer, turning to head back to the trunk where Dean has apparently stopped fighting his fate. “For you and the kid I met 13 years ago.”

Sam and I lift and carry Dean to the backseat of the car. I yank it open and we slide him across the seat.

“I’ll buckle him in,” I tell Sam. “That bum arm of yours has had a workout today. You gonna be OK driving?”

“Sure,” he says, “Little coffee and I’ll be good to go. We need to make a stop for supplies anyway.”

I climb in over Dean and quickly entwine him with the seat belts then buckle them. I do my best to avoid his eyes, but I can feel him glaring at me. It’s as if he’s trying to burn me alive with his gaze.

“Sam, you got anything that’ll serve as a blindfold?” I ask, finally letting my eyes fall on Dean’s.

I hear and feel the deep, rumbling growl that comes from him as I accept the blindfold from Sam with a sneer of my own.

“Try to take a nap, Dean-o,” I say as I cover his eyes with the cloth and tie it at the back of his head. “Gonna be a few hours.”

~~~~~~~

Turns out, supplies are blood bags.

So we had to stop at Creighton Med Center first. Sam had a contact there who found a priest to no-questions-asked bless the blood he purchased for the curing process. I remained outside to watch Dean -- not that there was much to watch.

I think he actually did take a nap.

Once that business was complete and Sam and I were caffeinated, the drive to Lebanon was only three hours.

We arrived at nightfall, Sam leading the way into what legit looked like the entrance to the Batcave but turned out to be a glam-ass garage -- vintage car after bike after scooter, all in pristine condition.

Sam unfolds himself from the Impala as I’m removing my helmet. “Dude, this is fucking Disneyland!”

Sam huffs a fatigued laugh. “That’s what Dean said,” he replies without the remorse I witnessed the couple of other times he compared Dean and me.

“So,” I start as Sam looks around the garage as if he hasn’t seen it in a year. “Which way’re we draggin’ his willfully limp and uncooperative ass?”

I make a face at the backseat and Sam chuckles with an eye roll. “This way,” he answers and nods as he opens the back seat and lets me get Dean unbuckled.

We both work to drag him across the leather. He’s playing possum as fuck and I am so fucking glad this is almost over.

I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is _what a fucking diva_ , because I know even the slightest irritable response from Sam or me will only make Dean act up more.

Also, I can almost taste the whiskey I’m going to be guzzling the second we get him locked down, and I’m fucking parched.

“Wait,” Sam grunts, grappling with his brother’s inexplicably unwieldy frame with his one good arm.

Before I have a chance to register the uncanny movement of his limbs, Dean’s unraveled the ropes. There’s a shocking commotion of fists and elbows before Sam’s down and out cold on the concrete.

I stumble back, fingers hooking the loops of my karambit knives, but the heel of my boot catches on the rope. My back slaps the floor, knocking the breath from my lungs and knives from my hands. I can’t breathe, but I can’t stop, so I crabwalk away as fast as I can, thankful for the tiny bit of traction afforded by my riding gloves.

“Sam!” I gasp to no response. “Sam, wake up!”

Dean quickly descends, blindly yet proficiently gathering the length of rope.

He looks like a horror movie villain, mysterious and frightening, even blinded and gagged.

He shoves his blindfold up and off his face with his cuffed hands as he falls into a straddle over my thighs.

I kick and I scream. I throw punches, but he captures my wrists and yanks them over my head. He secures them with the rope and ties the rope to a pole beside my head.

_This is not happening..._

“Dean, don’t do this,” I hate the way my voice shakes. “Don’t-”

He delivers a shushing motion with all eight fingers and both thumbs, gleefully mocking me from his cuffed wrists against the backdrop of his taped mouth. He’s a deranged parody of the _Don’t H8_ campaign posters, and it makes me suddenly very, very sick.

Then he sits heavily back on his haunches, weighing my thighs down with his heft. He watches me with open appreciation as he peels down the duct tape that’s wrapped around his head holding the gag inside his mouth.

He hisses as the duct tape tears at his skin before finally tossing everything aside -- so adept, even with the cuffs. His mouth is agape as he throws his head back taking several leisurely breaths as if his time spent gagged was an eternity and he needs to give that sharp jaw a work-out.

He slowly drags his gaze back to me, his eyes black and frighteningly focused. “Fuck,” he croaks. “Didn’t see that comin’, huh?”

He drops over me, his hands braced around my throat without compression -- but I know it’s coming.

“Ya know... I can’t decide if I wanna make you scream ‘til you can’t breathe,” he wonders aloud, absently caressing the thin skin of my neck. “Or if I wanna fuck you unconscious.”

I writhe under him with renewed vigor.

These aren’t threats; they’re promises. I was done playing with him hours ago, and, now, he’s going to make sure I pay for preempting his game.

“Sam!” I sob, tears stinging my skin and dampening my hair.

“Hey!” Dean growls and then he _does_ squeeze. “Keep fightin’ like this, you’re gonna force my hand.”

He dips in, his lips hovering against mine. “You promised me you’d last _all day long_ , Taziana,” he breathes, brushing his lips against mine. “You wouldn’t’ve been teasin’ me now, would ya?”

I whimper and try to swallow under his constricting fists. “Dean, please,” I choke.

“Please, what, sweetheart?” he asks, nipping my jaw. “Harder?”

He squeezes until I know that my larynx will be bruised and the edges of my vision begin to fade.

“You’re the one who wanted to stop playin’,” he says, his voice becoming farther and farther away. “But we can’t skip the final round...”

My legs and hips feel like lead as I fight for my life until I blackout.

~~~~~~~

“She will be fine,” an unfamiliar voice asserts at the edges of my consciousness. “I healed her trachea and larynx, he didn’t inflict any other injuries.”

“You got here in time,” Sam says. “Thanks, Cas.”

I try to wake up, but I’m groggy and thirsty. I can use my hands though, and I touch my throat -- no pain. As my eyes adjust I find myself in a dimly lit dormlike room. The door is open and Sam is in the hallway with another man in a trench coat.

Both men turn to look through the door as I struggle to sit up. I’m uneasy on my elbows, feeling the worst hangover of my life. I push myself all the way up to sitting and run my hands up the sides of my head, checking my braids and ponytail -- all intact.

At least my do is still stylin’.

It seems Sam must’ve stripped me down to the camisole and boyshorts I started the day in yesterday with him and my mystery coffee. I thought my days of being half-naked in front of strange men were behind me, but here we are.

“Hey,” I greet them, sounding less wrecked than I feel. “‘Sup?”

I push myself all the way up and drag the blankets off. On the floor next to the bed are slippers.

“Wow,” I say, slipping my feet into the plush amenity. “Five-star, Sam.”

Sam grins. “How’re you feelin’?” he asks.

“Not like I was choked by a Knight of Hell,” I reply, joking, as I am wont to do, to make light of almost being murdered or worse. “I understand you’re to thank?” I ask, shuffling to meet the new guy with an extended hand.

He nods and accepts, briefly and awkwardly shaking my hand. “I’m Castiel,” he answers.

I straighten up and hold in my gasp. “Double wow,” I say looking to Sam. “The Angel of the Lord.”

Sam shrugs and gives me a look that says, _it’s true_.

“Huh,” I say, then chew my lips. “So, uhh... Dean?”

Sam’s face softens and he looks more rested than I’ve seen him in the entire 48 hours I’ve known him.

“Dean has been cured,” Castiel answers.

I feel a sudden chill and try to shake it off. It’s over. The job is done.

This isn’t like seeing my mom’s husband after he got out of rehab, my skin crawling with every syllable of his apology. Dean is human again; he isn’t the demon who hurt me.

This is not the same and I’ve got to figure out how to reconcile that, to get past this fear.

Sam holds my gaze.

“He’s... resting,” Castiel says.

I turn my attention to the angel. “Good,” I reply, my voice thinner and higher than I’m OK with it being. “That’s good. That he’s resting.”

I shift my weight and Sam moves into my space, reaching for one of my hands. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hungry?”

I huff a nervous laugh. “That’s not what I expected you to ask me, but, yeah... I’m starving.”

“Then let’s get you something to eat,” Sam says.

“Just lemme get some clothes on,” I say, turning to where Sam, I assume, folded my clothes and set them aside on a chair.

The thing that’s weighing me down and making me shiver forms into a question in my brain, and before I can assess whether or not it’s a good idea to ask, the words are spilling from my lips.

“Does he remember anything?” I ask as I fasten my pants and reach for my top.

Sam and Castiel’s hesitancy to discuss Dean is not surprising, but it’s like a mastodon in the room. I was out for the entire process, which, from what I recall Sam telling me, was to take at least seven hours.

I turn to Sam and Castiel -- both appearing full of regret for something beyond their control.

“Don’t look so worried, fellas,” I say. “If I can handle being throttled by a Knight of Hell, I can handle a status update.”

“He does,” Sam answers with a heavy sigh. “It took him a few minutes, but he remembers. Everything.”

Part of me is glad that he’ll remember; the less than compassionate part of me feels somehow vindicated by that fact.

But the bigger part of me, the part that’s grown from decades of trauma and recovery, wishes that he didn’t have to endure the memories of murdering innocent people, threatening his beloved brother’s life, and assaulting the woman who vowed to save him.

As I sink deeper into my thoughts, Castiel stirs beside me.

“I have some business to attend to now that we have Dean back,” he says. He nods to me and I return the gesture, then he disappears into thin air.

“Well,” I say, feeling the chill rattle my teeth. “That was... bracing.”

Sam chuckles. “He does that sometimes. C’mon, let’s get you fed.”

I quietly follow Sam out the door and down the hall. The doors lining the way are numbered. As we approach number 11, my heart rate picks up significantly.

I realize that I’ve slowed my gait as well because Sam stops a few steps in front of me and turns to watch me closely.

I look at the identical brass numbers, side by side, and something stirs in my chest.

“That’s Dean’s room,” Sam says, but he didn’t need to say it; I knew.

I nod. “Yeah. I figured.”

Sam waits patiently for me to gain my composure once more and to join him for the rest of the short walk to the kitchen.

We don’t exchange words as he makes me a sandwich and I eat it. Nothing is said at all until we’re cleaning up and the third inhabitant of the bunker finally shows his face in the artificial light of the kitchen.

I feel him behind me, several feet away, wary and silent. Then he clears his throat.

I turn slowly to see Dean in flannel pants and a hooded sweatshirt. His soft, thick hair is rumpled and his eyes are warm and bright green. His stance is hesitant but very present, his face open.

I met this man only once. I spent one evening with him, having fun, laughing, flirting. I only knew him for a handful of hours and yet... we’ve been to Hell and back.

“Tazi,” Dean says, remaining still.

His face is kind and contrite -- Dean Winchester through the years has become the kind of man who wears his sorrow like an old leather jacket -- but he isn’t pleading.

And I realize, he doesn’t expect me to forgive him. He isn’t going to beg for mercy. He’ll carry this guilt to his final grave and let it weigh him down.

“Hey,” I reply.

I don’t force anything, any emotion or action. I feel more stable right there in the face of my assailant and his apologetic little brother than I typically do in the presence of another human.

I remember what Linda has told me about these moments, to hold onto them, to just _be with_ them, and to learn.

“Came for a midnight snack,” Dean rumbles as he crosses the room to the fridge.

Sam pushes a bottle of water into my hand before joining Dean and striking up a quiet conversation.

I don’t say another word as I leave the kitchen and head back to the room where my bag is. I lock the door behind me, down the water, and climb back under the covers, wrapping myself in this surely fleeting solace before falling into a deep sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the extreme delay in updating. I hope to have this thing wrapped up in the next six weeks!

When I wake the next morning, it’s nearly 9AM.

Memories from the last few days slip and slide through my mind like stories from a past life. The images and resonance are hazy, jostled, and nonlinear. There are flashes of jawbone blades and blood, of sharp, white teeth and strobe lights, of steaming coffee, of my back pressed into a brick wall...

I shudder and rub my eyes as I reach for my phone to try and chase away the thoughts. There’s a message from Crowley. He’s transferred my bounty to my account without argument or wit.

Shocker.

I roll from under the covers and stretch, my joints popping and groaning all while my muscles scream. I need a hot shower, some coffee, and a good workout.

The thought of leaving this room has me temporarily frozen, though, because no matter how uneventful last night’s impromptu meeting with Dean turned out to be, I don’t particularly relish the possibility of running into him in my underwear.

I text Sam because God knows where he is in the fortress that is the bunker or if he’s even here at all.

_Hey, Sam — would love a shower before I hit the road. Is that cool?_

I have somehow regressed to my teen years in communicating because I can’t come right out and ask him, _hey, is your brother wandering around unattended? Just looking for a non-murder shower._

But that isn’t fair, either, because Dean isn’t the demon. He’s human again and I don’t need to be afraid. I just need to wake up and pull my head out of my ass then move on with my life.

As I comb out and braid my hair, Sam answers almost immediately. _Absolutely. Turn right outside your door and take your first left. Towels and body wash are all there. There’s coffee in the kitchen when you’re ready, too._

_Sweet, thanks._ I watch the screen for a moment, hoping for more bubbles from Sam, offering some assurance that I’m as safe as logic tells me I am.

He doesn’t offer such a thing, though, so I bite the bullet and ask, _how’s Dean?_

The much-anticipated box of bubbles shows up, then disappears. It shows up again for about one second, then disappears again. Finally, it ripples on the bottom of my screen until a full text presents itself. 

_Dean’s good. We’re gonna head out for a few days, get some lake time in, maybe some fishing._

_You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to recover. We’ve got a kitchen full of food, wine, beer, whiskey — take your time._

“Huh,” I exclaim dumbly to myself.

I have no idea what’s going on. Offering the place to me to recuperate is certainly the decent thing to do, but to leave me, a virtual stranger, here alone in their home and inherited sanctuary seems... risky?

I guess I’m not worrisome for two supernatural hunters who’ve each died multiple times and served lengthy sentences in Hell.

_That’s real generous, Sam_ , I reply. _I’ll start with a shower and some coffee. ;-)_

_Lol yes, like I said, take your time. We’re packing up. Dean’s in the garage getting the car ready. He, uh, was pretty embarrassed about how trashed it was._

I huff an ironic laugh.

Definitely not the careless demon of yesterday.

I discontinue my banter with Sam to focus on what’s important, scooping up my bag and making my way to the shower room.

Apart from briefly rolling my shoulders and neck under the hot spray to let the damp heat penetrate my skin and work on my muscles, I make pretty quick work of getting clean, scrubbing my toes and nails, brushing my teeth. Once I’ve moisturized and shimmied into a fresh pair of leggings, toe socks, and a yoga top, I throw my things together and toss my bag inside my room as I go.

The lingering aroma of bacon and eggs lures me to the kitchen where I find a fresh pot of coffee. My stomach growls but I push it aside until I can get caffeinated and hydrated and make a plan.

I appreciate Sam’s offer, but I clearly cannot stay here in this bunker full of food and whiskey and amazing fucking water pressure.

I can’t.

It’s not my home.

And there’s an elephant in the room too big for me to ignore, even if Dean’s gone off to the French Riviera or wherever.

“Hey,” his voice startles me and I almost spill coffee down the front of my only clean top.

I turn slowly to face him, an echo from the night before without Sam there as a buffer.

“Hey,” I answer, taking in his freshly shaven jawline and neatly trimmed hair.That trademark smile threatens to warm his cheeks but sees fit to remain in his eyes.

“You, uhh,” he speaks, motioning in the general direction of the stove. “You get somethin’ to eat?”

“Just coffee for me,” I answer with an attempted smile, showing him my mug that’s in plain view for good measure.

He draws a deep breath, and I’m reminded of just how big he is as his t-shirt pulls taut across his chest. I can almost feel his weight on me again and it makes my blood run cold to my toes.

I remember how to breathe through the chill, and shame squeezes the warmth from his expression.

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes fluttering and feet shifting backward. “I’ll, uhh-”

“No,” I protest.

I feel unsettled but I know it’s not _Dean_ , making me feel that way. It’s the wildly improbable situation we’re in — the aftermath of a meet-cute turned horror story with neither of us in the director’s chair.

Dean tilts his head and narrows his gaze as he turns to face me again, studying me as I stumble over my words.

“Stay,” I pause looking for the right words, but something tells me he’ll know what I mean no matter how succinct I am with phrasing. “Dean, this is fucked up.”

He scoffs and pulls a face. The self-reproach and hatred cocktail that rolls off of him is so pungent I can taste it in the air. The familiar tang is bitter on my tongue.

“But it isn’t one-sided,” I state.

He gawks at me. “I killed innocent people, Tazi,” he says plainly. “I tried to kill you.”

For some reason, his declaration makes me laugh. Maybe saying these ridiculous realities out loud will make them more tangible and easier to conquer. I let it all sink in as I cross the room.

“Yeah, well, here we are,” I say, once I catch my breath.

Dean studies me as I take a seat at the table and he refills his mug.

“You're an unusual woman, you know that?” he says as he sinks onto the short stool to face me with the prettiest combination of bemusement and curiosity, teasing the warmth back into his eyes.

“You’re not exactly the average Joe,” I point out before taking a sip of my coffee.

“Touché,” Dean murmurs.

All I know is the more we talk, the less jagged I feel. I want to keep him talking, to absorb the warm, steady tone of his voice. It’s comforting without the demon’s arrogance and the boy’s uncertainty.

As a man, Dean is solid, strong, and sure. I can’t tell whether that’s underneath or on top of all the scars of battle. I think it might be both.

There’s a hum in my veins but I breathe through it. There’s no reason for me to fear Dean, not anymore, and I can hear Linda’s careful guidance, telling me to sit with this, to hold it, to not let it control me.

His gaze seems to hyperfocus on my hands then blurs a bit. He’s thinking too much about something as we quietly sip our coffee.

I start talking before I consider my words carefully.

But, again, I know Dean will get it regardless.

“My stepdad was a drunk,” I start, keeping my fingers wrapped tightly around my mug.

Dean blinks rapidly then drags his attentive gaze back up to meet mine.

“He was also pretty handsy and liked to confuse me with my mom,” I continue.

Dean’s shoulders and jaw tense and he sits up straight, his big hands gripping his coffee mug.

I shake my head and choose my next words more wisely than anything I’ve typed or said since the day has begun.

“When he got sober and found Jesus, he apologized.”

Dean’s eyes flare, and I’m chilled in a way that’s entirely new. This isn’t the demon. This is a man full of rage. I can only assume that The Mark of Cain is at play here because this immediate flare of violent agitation is incongruous of everything else I know about the man that is the eldest Winchester.

Something about this facet of Dean brings me all the way over the hump. This is our common ground.

“He apologized,” I reiterate. “And he wanted me to accept his apology.”

“Fucking 12 step bullshit,” Dean mutters and looks away for a moment, his hands working the mug.

I snort ruefully. “Yeah, well, I _didn’t_ accept it.”

Dean’s gaze snaps back to mine and his eyebrows arch over wide eyes. “Oh, yeah?”

I nod slowly. “He went to his grave knowing that I hated him.”

Dean whistles long and low. “Damn,” he says his features softening and eyes simmering down. “And you? How’re you... after?”

I hold his gaze with mine because what I have to say next is crucial for him to understand.

“I learned that what he wanted or needed had no bearing on what _I_ needed, and that was to forgive myself.”

“But you didn’t-”

I cut Dean off from trying to console me for anything.

He won’t let me console him, and that’s a two-way street.

“I hated him and I feared him. I spent years locking myself away from a full life in the name of protecting myself. I was wrong and I needed to accept that.”

Dean’s thoughtful for a few moments as we both sip our coffee.

“That’s some heavy shit,” he finally says.

In 30 seconds we’re both laughing.

After my second hysterical outburst of the morning, I pull up to make my final point.

“I understand you and Sam are headed off for a few days of self-care?” I snag his almost-sparkling eyes.

“Yeah,” Dean answers with a reticent smile. “That what the kids are callin’ it these days?”

I grin. “Yes. And I’m glad. You deserve it.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shifts uncomfortably on his stool because he doesn’t feel so great about the woman he tried to rape and murder telling him he deserves something good.

_Too bad, Dean-o. Get used to it._

“Sam offered the bunker to me to chill.” I shrug.

Dean doesn’t seem surprised by this information. He nods with a less reticent smile this time. “You gonna stay?”

I try to appear indifferent and drag my gaze from his easy and breezy, but he’s just so _warm_.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “I think I will.”

Dean slowly pushes himself to stand. “Good. We got a nice soakin’ tub, great gym.” He tilts his head with a grin.

His eyes quickly dance over my body, and I feel my skin tingle, trying to reconcile — if this isn’t the demon who tried to kill me, is it the guy who made me come fully clothed from dry-humping me against a wall?

I shake my head from that thought and try to change the subject.

“You guys have fun and take lotsa chances, ya hear?” I joke as I stand as if I’m seeing him out of his own home.

I expect sass or some kind of flirtation. Instead, when his eyes meet mine, he’s resolved.

“You’ll be safe here,” Dean says with conviction.

I believe him. I believe that this place is the safest place on the planet and that I have nothing to fear with Dean.

“I know,” I reply, and Dean sighs with relief.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to marksmanfem, briarr, and fangirlwrites67 for their pretty pom poms and the generous and essential feedback.


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